


lay down your load, 'cause every day it's gonna grow

by eggfish



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Developing Relationships, F/M, Multi, Platonic Sex, Pre-Canon, consensual voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27238057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggfish/pseuds/eggfish
Summary: Booker is not what Andy was expecting.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, past Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko
Comments: 12
Kudos: 80





	lay down your load, 'cause every day it's gonna grow

**Author's Note:**

> Re: relationship tags: Andy and Andy&Booker are the real focus. I originally wrote this because Joe/Nicky but got distracted by, like, the access that Joe/Nicky has, the influence that that has, the international implications that that has, etc. 
> 
> Title from [Keane - You are Young](https://youtu.be/JddEezXWf8Y) which, for once, I am serious about.

After that first frantic burst of years searching for Sebastien le Livre, tearing first through stinking battlefields and then stinking French cities, struggling to recall dreams that seem purposefully blocked out with late nights and hard drink, Yusuf's sketchbooks filling up with portraits and notes - after all that, when Andromache first lays eyes on the carefully-groomed, defiant-eyed stranger, she knows he's not one of them. Oh, he's immortal all right, but he's so painfully, obviously weak _. _ She's not surprised when she finds out he was a deserter. No, she thinks, she doesn't want this one.

Nicolò and Yusuf disagree, of course. The three of them argue over it to start with, but the point is rendered moot when they actually talk to le Livre and he makes it clear that he doesn't want them either. He wants to pretend like nothing happened at all except the hangman tied the knot a little loose. Incredible. It's been millenia and Andromache is still being introduced to new examples of human stupidity.

Three decades pass like an eye-blink. When they find each other again - in Paris, during their February Revolution - she recognises like an old friend the grief in the lines of his body and the broken, searching look in his eyes. She thinks,  _ all right. Maybe. _

\--

Sebastien - or Bastien, because Andromache has no patience for long names, even her own - joins them gratefully, first to help with the revolt, then with those it forgot. Compared to them his fighting and espionage skills are near worthless, but he knows the city and its people and the mid-nineteenth century much better than them, so he works as liaise and information-gatherer. It sets a precedent that'll never really wear off, not even after Andromache personally whips him into fighting shape over the next decade. 

She observes with interest, during those early months, as the squad's dynamic changes for the first time in three centuries. Yusuf establishes an instant rapport with Sebastien - her peaceful old apartment is made lively by the sound of them laughing at each other's jokes and irreverent comments, and they trade French accent coaching for English lessons. 

On the other hand, his youth brings out a gently attentive side of Nicolò which unsettles him to begin with, although they eventually get along fine and even begin to gamble against each other on odd things. Random chance, always a good way to even out a difference in experience. 

As for when all three of them are together... Yusuf and Nicolò are friendly enough, and Andromache suspects that Sebastien has not even managed to properly understand their love yet, for all their eagerness to finally explain it to a new person. But they inevitably make him feel left out. It's usually at this point that she steps in to keep him company. He glances at her with a raised eyebrow whenever the other two descend into shorthand discussions in their ancient languages, and she assures him that it would be no more comprehensible if he understood every word. 

They still haven't quite found their footing with each other outside the soldier/superior dynamic, but at least he's no longer shit-scared of her and she no longer thinks him pathetic. They stare out into the sleepless Parisian nights and drink together. How predictable. What they have in common is loss. How obvious. He's told them his story; she'd never tell him hers, but she's heard his gasps and snorts from another room as he wakes from the dreams, and she's heard Yusuf and Nicolò talking to him about it (she silently thanks the pair of them for knowing to go behind her back).

These days she often finds herself remembering those first years after she found Quỳnh, that long slow springlike miracle. They'd had loss in common, too, among other things; millenia's worth of loss after loss. 

\--

The living room door squeaks as it opens, but Andromache doesn't bother to look away. Her hearing is excellent, and she's learned the sound of Sebastien's footsteps.

"Oh - pardon me," he murmurs, shocked into very correct and polite French, and he turns right around to leave - pauses and takes a confused step back toward them - steps away again -

"Hey, nothing needs excusing," Yusuf says in the same language, voice still all dreamy and breathless. "Nicolò," he adds yet more softly to the man in his embrace.

Nicolò is totally blank for a moment, staring at Sebastien with pale eyes out of a face flushed like sunburn; but then his mouth shifts a little, going amiable. "You can also watch us tonight," he agrees. "Like Andromache. The view is quite good."

Yusuf gives a smug half-grin, eyebrow raised as if saying, _ hey, he's right. _

"No, it's okay - I - why?" Sebastien sounds... wondering. Andromache peers around to see. He's stopped in the doorway, still nervously clutching the handle. He looks back at her in confusion, forehead creased.

"It is an act of affection," Nicolò answers.

"Bastien," Andromache says. "When you're offered something like this, you don't question it. Leave, or come sit next to me."

He doesn't leave.

\--

It used to be the four of them paired off, Nicolò and Yusuf and Quỳnh and her. Back then it had been practical. They all shared quarters and there was no way to hide, no patience to wait, sometimes. And although they did not desire each other there could be something erotic about hearing another couple's passions. Especially those two. 

When Andromache first met them, she'd suspected that they were  _ the _ answer, the miraculous proof of what immortality could be in perfection, the thing that excused its existence. Nowadays she just thinks they live differently. She's watched them wear each other smooth over the centuries, giving up parts of themselves to the other for safekeeping: Nicolò's temper, Yusuf's solemnity. She's seen how they get not just worried, but  _ confused, _ after mere hours apart. And it's impossible not to notice their infatuation with corners and locked doors and weapons in easy reach. 

It was entirely possible that after what happened three hundred years ago they would have been unable to look at her at all, alone as she was, or she at the two of them. Instead they'd clung on to each other more closely than ever. The day she finally resigned herself to another endless winter, they had been there as always to warm her with their kindness. 

Even then she had never thought of intruding on them as a lone voyeur. The three of them still shared quarters often, of course. But at those times she would send herself to sleep by soldier's discipline or simply get up and walk away, perhaps to find a lover of her own. The first time they told her to stay, her own gratitude had shocked her. She had not realised how desperate she was to see their ancient warmth and love for each other, had not expected the way she could feel each emotion on their faces as if it were her own. (Quỳnh always used to comment on that - how she felt so much for others.) 

She never does more than watch and perhaps let them watch her, but it feels intimate in a way that no tryst with a mortal could ever replace. Her love for them is ancient too.

\--

It's not often they do this. But it had been a shitty night - she'd gone home with someone, but it always kills the mood when the other person starts to time your hickeys disappearing. Though she didn't mention a word of it to the two, she knows they noticed, because they glanced at her in a certain idle way before getting their hands on each other. 

Her, and now Sebastien. She hadn't expected them to accept him like this so soon. It's proof again of their kindness - or simply of the fact that after spending all this time in varying levels of secrecy, they will always take great pleasure in other immortals bearing witness to the entirety of their seven-hundred-year-old love. Either way, she finds herself loving them more for it.

The two sofas are opposite each other, Yusuf and Nicolò lying on one - rapidly becoming absorbed in one another again - and Andromache on the other. Sebastien shuts the door and hesitantly sits down on her side. The distance between them feels inappropriate; she moves behind him and puts an arm around his waist, guiding him back into her. She feels his shaggy head come to nestle against the side of her neck, and feels a sudden wash of affection for him too, this odd man who somehow manages to be so weary and detached, but remains so innocent and foolish all the same. "Watch closely," she whispers into his hair, like she might say just before demonstrating a knife move.

It's evident Yusuf and Nicolò are just doing the sort of thing they do most nights, unhurried and unsurprised, their bodies moving together in practiced synchrony. Nicolò sits up to undo their trousers almost before Yusuf first guides his hands down to do it. Yusuf puts his head back to watch through half-lidded eyes almost before Nicolò first begins to grind them together with one hand braced on the sofa back and the slow roll of his hips. 

Nicolò grimaces weirdly as he loses himself in the pleasure of it. Andromache, used to this and fond, cracks a smile; Yusuf does too, saying a few words in their dated Ligurian dialect and flicking his eyes over to her and Sebastien. Nicolò laughs at him before leaning down briefly to nuzzle his neck, replying in a playful tone. He hasn't broken his rhythm. Yusuf hums. 

"They're saying that you might think he isn't attracted to him," Andromache translates.

"Oh, very funny," Sebastien murmurs, deep voice buzzing against her chest. She toys with the idea of getting her hand down his trousers and seeing if she can convince him to loosen up a little. But starting an affair with another immortal could mean a literal eternity of problems for all she knows. They've only been working together for a few months.

And - across from them, Yusuf gets his hand on the back of Nicolò's neck, pulling him in, and simultaneously Nicolò crowds him up to sit against the armrest so it's like there's no push or pull at all, the two of them unconsciously moving as one even as their mouths work against each other in a long kiss. And Andromache aches with the memory of moments like that. Of knowing and being known like a weapon held in the hand: an extension of the other's body.

Even the way they strip off and prepare to make love is thoughtlessly graceful. Soon enough Yusuf twists around, and Nicolò runs a hand down his spine, grips his hip to keep him steady. As he first slides into Yusuf, eliciting noises from both that sound almost relieved, there's a soft  _ oh  _ from Sebastien and a new tension in him. She suspects she would like to show him what that feels like. Maybe in a few years' time. 

But a few moments he surprises her by pulling away and standing. She touches his arm questioningly, but he doesn't look back at her, just tiptoes out. Could he not handle seeing something so private? Is his mind still too narrow for this act after just one lifetime? Or perhaps he couldn't resist any longer and has gone somewhere to pleasure himself alone. 

The other two have stopped to watch him leave too. She makes a questioning face at them. Yusuf just puts his head back down again, looking a little rueful, but Nicolò jerks his chin imperceptibly at the door -  _ follow him.  _ She hadn't expected that.

Andromache doesn't do anything so soft as waver, but she does pause to give them one last look, trying to communicate her feelings. 

"We get it, boss," Yusuf says, more warmly and gently than he has any right to. "Now get out of our hair."

"I think it has to be you," Nicolò agrees cryptically. He presses his forehead against the back of Yusuf's neck. "I imagined…"

"I don't think we were the only ones," Yusuf says. They're not talking to her anymore.

\--

She finds Sebastien six stories down, out on the lamplit street, arms wrapped around himself and head tipped back to look up at the sky. No moon or stars visible tonight, just thick cloud turned a dirty grey by the city lights. She scuffs her feet against the pavement to give some warning as she strolls up next to him.

"Hey,  _ bouquin, _ " she says, also gazing at those empty heavens. "I guess we gave you a shock."

"...Not exactly. They have been flirting with me for a while." Andromache's eyebrows go up. She's missed more than she realised. "I would have stayed if I could. They're… They are so close - I didn't expect it to be so beautiful."

She shrugs. "It's always beautiful to see masters at work."

"You're right." There's a smile in his voice now as he turns to look at her. "I've been thinking that a lot, working with you."

She looks him in the face for the first time, surprised and amused - and sees the raw rims of his narrow eyes and the wet on his cheeks, the self-mocking twist to that smile. He is, she realises, desperately lonely. Not because his immortality has left him forever an outsider, or because he yearns for a soul mate; he hasn't even exceeded his natural lifespan, he doesn't even know those feelings yet. It's because he's human, and seeing two people loving each other made him miss his family or his friends or any form of companionship to get him through the night.

Ah, hell. Never mind her lifetimes of grief and loss and guilt, she can feel lonely like that too. She puts her face up to his, and they kiss silently, his stubble scratching at her lips. Then she takes his hand and leads him back up to the now-dark apartment. 

The sex is nice. It's like they're connecting properly for the first time. There's no fire burning between them, but when he's inside her, moving so carefully at first, she feels the same deep, warm affection for him as before; from the way he responds to her touch, he feels something too. 

At the time, she thinks that's enough.

\--

It takes Nile to remind her - Nile, who she knew from toe to tip after just one dream, one electric fist-fight that set her body alive with adrenaline in a way that mortal danger no longer did. Nile, who nevertheless moved outside all prediction, who saved her before she even knew she needed saving. 

After Nile, she remembers why it never could have been enough for either of them. 

**Author's Note:**

> According to Google, 'bouquin' = slang word for book in French (as opposed to the usual 'livre').
> 
> Even at 2.5k this feels more a sketch than a full fic, but hopefully it was still interesting!


End file.
